


It's Only and Always Been You

by Hikage101



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Civil War, Angst, Civil War Team Captain America, Civil War Team Iron Man, Established Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe they were both wrong, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Pepper Potts, Rough Sex, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, They both did what they thought was right, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17857937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikage101/pseuds/Hikage101
Summary: Tony hates how things turned out, hates the choices he made, hates how much he lost. But what's a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist to do? Especially when he can't get a pair of blue eyes out of his head. And what happens when they return?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months after Civil War came out, because those Stony feels! My heart couldn't take it!! But what truly kicked it off was when I came across some beautiful artwork (I'll give more details in the post-work notes). So, I had my beginning. Then I found a couple more pieces that helped the rest practically write itself. I intended to have it up quickly, but that didn't happen. I wanted it up before Infinity War, given that this is a deviation from canon, but here we are. I definitely needed it up before Endgame. So, here we are! Please be kind.
> 
> I finished this around the same time as my other work, "Thank You For Calling Tech Support." Finally got them both up! Not that they're at all related to one another.
> 
> When you see "**" in this story, that's the hyperlink for the art that inspired this work. I got permission from one artist to include the actual artwork, so that will be in the second chapter. I've requested permission from the other artists, but haven't received a response, so I've linked the photos until I hear back. All credit to the artists!! And thank you so much to Cookiestome for letting me post your art!!!!
> 
> Warning: There is some brief violence, but it's canon-appropriate and, again, brief.

Grey eyes stared sightlessly, unfocused, looking through him – maybe into him? He didn't like it. His own eyes narrowed, the same challenging glare he'd often used to get a rise, but it wasn't working now. Of course it wasn't, but some stupid little part of him wanted desperately for those grey eyes to turn blue, like the sky, like his dreams, to change to the color they ought to be, to focus on him. He didn't care if they turned angry or sad – hell, he'd even take hurt, if it meant those eyes were looking at him; he could make hurt go away. He wanted those brows to draw down, those perfect lips to issue forth whatever words they wanted, if only to hear the rich timbre of that voice that plagued him in wakefulness now as it had been plaguing him in dreams for months.

His eyes trailed down to those arms, the ones that would wrap him so tightly against that sculpted body and drain away his fears and worries; those hands that could rend apart the strongest materials, gentled as they glided over his skin, cupped his face, held his hand; those legs that were always steady, strong enough to carry him when he'd been wounded or drunk or just needed some sleep and was too exhausted to walk on his own. He wondered if he'd ever know that comfort again.

Because he'd fucked up.

He'd fucked up, and he knew it now, but he really had thought he'd been doing the right thing then. He'd been so afraid, so scared of losing all the people he'd come to love – and wasn't _that_ just crazy, that he'd spent the majority of his life believing he'd never be able to form a meaningful relationship with a single person and then this crowd of pariahs and outcasts had wormed their way into his heart, and now he cared so much that sometimes it hurt to breathe – so devastated at the thought of millions of people wanting to hunt them down if they didn't cooperate, terrified at the prospect of the things that might happen if they didn't agree to be collared, and he'd made his decision. He'd said it was to protect innocent lives, and that was true to some extent, but what really mattered were the lives of the people closest to him. So, he'd made those promises, picked up that pen and signed away his soul, willing to stagger and bleed under the constraints the drafted words would impose on him, so long as it meant his family was safe.

Turns out, he'd fallen into old habits and once again forgotten to see how his actions might affect those around him.

Turns out, they didn't take too kindly to his decision.

Specifically, the one who held his heart – truly, wholly held it and loved it and nurtured it.

He loved a stubborn man, a man with the heart of a lion and the bullheadedness of... well, a bull. A stubborn lion-bull that he'd almost had convinced to see his side of things, but then he'd opened his big mouth – he never knew when to shut up, never saw himself digging his own grave until he looked up and realized how far away the sky was – and had babbled one moment too long, shot himself in the foot without evening knowing he held a gun, and everything shattered. The man he loved denounced the injustice of it all, refused to agree to the terms, and had gone so far as to walk away, several friends and other heroes flocking after him.

So, he'd been left broken and bleeding, the cavity in his chest, where his heart had been, filling up with anguish and denial and fear (always more fear). But his fear twisted to anger, as it always had, and fueled him to take actions he might not have under other circumstances, make choices he would never have dreamed he could make, all for the sake of numbing the pain and drowning the fear. He'd been tasked with hunting down that proud, stubborn man and he didn't put up much of an argument, knowing someone else would be sent out in his place, someone unconcerned with keeping a fugitive alive; there wasn't a word strong enough for the desperation that consumed him at the thought of irretrievable loss, something so overwhelming it felt like he was looking at it from the outside, like he couldn't actually feel it. So, he'd built his own team, met his love on the battlefield, and pitted friend against friend, tearing them all apart the way only his special brand of fucking up could. Then, his paramour had escaped, clever thing he was.

In his quest to track down his lover-on-the-lam, he'd unwittingly unraveled many tangled threads, learned things that had started to clear the haze from his mind, and thought that maybe he could salvage things after all. He'd set out to do just that, thought he'd managed it, picked up his crushed heart and dusted it off, coaxed the bruised thing into some semblance of working order. Of course, he was not a lucky man, not in any sense of the word, and the threads he had been pulling dropped away to lay bare devastating truths. There was pain – _so much pain_ – and betrayal, and he saw himself losing the last thing he had in this world. He fought, nourished by his inner turmoil, but he was so blinded by it that strategy fell by the wayside and he just lashed out.

Again, he was left broken and bleeding, but this time much more literally.

Again, the man he loved left.

This time, he didn't go searching, didn't want to even think about what had happened, wished it was all a terrible nightmare and he'd wake up soon, safe in the warm embrace of strong arms. Or died, that would have been preferable.

He'd woken up in a cold hospital room instead.

He'd ignored the sorrowful, pitying looks of his friends that had remained on his side, adorned himself with the crown and mantle of the King of Denial, and smiled his way through it. He took up his most trusty weapons, Deflection and Sass, and fought gallantly every day. He convinced himself that if he didn't think about it, if he kept it buried, if he kept fucking smiling, he could fake it till he made it. The trouble with repression was that it had a way of building up the pressure until things leaked out, bit by bit, and then, finally, exploded.

It had happened when he received a letter, written in a neat penmanship he'd recognize anywhere. He didn't know what he was expecting – knew what he was hoping, though, however irrational it might be – and was (unsurprisingly) disappointed with what he found. There was no promise of coming home, no admission of guilt or yearning, just an apology that things hadn't turned out better and an oath to help when trouble reared its ugly head.

Not to come to help _him_ , not to be available for what _he_ needed – to fight for the world.

Maybe his paramour's world didn't include him anymore.

He'd thought of calling anyway, considered tracking the singular number programmed into the phone that accompanied the letter (yeah, it was definitely going to be a burner phone, but that wouldn't stop him, he was too brilliant for that). Instead, he'd tossed it in a drawer in his desk and pretended it didn't exist. But he'd already locked away too much for his mind to keep at bay, and the truth started slipping free.

It would hit him at random times, times that made no sense, when he least expected it – in the shower, drinking the day's first cup of coffee, in the middle of a meeting. Most of the time, it seemed arbitrary, but he started to pick up on the hidden pattern: a song they used to dance to, playing in the background; a shirt, wadded up and dropped next to the laundry basket; a statement someone made that paralleled the strong morals of his missing paramour. Sometimes it was a dull ache in his chest, a lump in his throat, maybe tears in his eyes; sometimes it would drop him to his knees, as powerful as any physical blow, and he'd feel himself falling apart, scrambled to pick up the pieces, to hold himself together.

Diving into his work helped. So did alcohol. Often, he didn't rejoin the real world for days. Even less often did he enjoy what he found waiting for him.

His friends, the few he still had, worried and fussed over him, offering condolences and empty promises that things would get better. They did their best to be sure he was fed, showered, and rested; he wasn't overly cooperative, so they failed more often than not. Today, they must've reached their breaking point, unleashing their secret weapon, and he'd been dragged from his cave, locked out of it, and told with deadly green gaze and in no uncertain terms that he was to go get some fresh air. He knew better than to challenge the command, knew he was expected to stay away for at least a couple hours, so he'd turned and just started walking, letting his feet guide him where they would.

Somehow, his muddled brain had decided this was the best place to be, standing before the object of his destruction. He decided “masochist” wasn't a strong enough word and he shoved his hands into his pockets, furrowed his brow as he stared into those grey eyes. Maybe it was something he saw (or didn't see) there, maybe he'd just finally cracked, but a melancholy little smile spread across his face.

“God, I miss you,” Tony whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to the cold lips of Captain America's memorial statue.

[**](https://twitter.com/C527M/status/832643356542906368)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I saw the first photo, everyone was commenting about how precious and sweet it was, but somehow I saw a sadness to it. Tony looks wistful to me, as if Steve's not there, and the first place my mind went was Civil War.
> 
> Also, just in case it wasn't clear - I didn't know how to make it clear without dragging it on too long - the "deadly green gaze" belongs to one Ms. Pepper Potts. I love Pepper portrayed as a good friend to Tony and she's definitely always been the one person who could get him to do anything. I just imagined the Team getting frustrated with being unable to get Tony moving, so they called in the big guns, i.e. Pepper. And she marched in (in her usual fashion), gave him that no-nonsense do-what-I-say-because-I'm-always-right, and lovingly threatened him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what happens next? No more mopey Tony, that's for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first "**" you see, click to follow the link to the art. For the second, it's just a placeholder so you know where the artwork goes. It's included at the end of the chapter, permission courtesy of the amazing Cookiestome~ Go check out their Tumblr page for more awesomeness! http://cookiestome.tumblr.com/
> 
> Much longer chapter. It just seemed better to separate this part from the first bit.

Anxiety rippled almost tangibly through the air as Team Iron Man, plus Rhodey and Pepper, entered the new Avengers compound in upstate New York, returning from a briefing by SHIELD (oh, yeah, Coulson had followed them home, too). The new terms of the Accords had finally been signed, meaning everything was about to change, maybe for the worst, but not because of what the documents now read.

After his trip to Staten Island and brief affair with Steve's old WWII statue, Tony had decided that regardless of how things had turned out between the two of them, he needed to fix his mistakes for the good of all the other heroes of the world, both those he loved and those he'd yet to meet. True to Stark form, he'd gone in with guns blazing, demanding a rewrite of the Accords to better benefit both sides, something to allow heroes their freedom and still give civilians a peace of mind. He'd ignored the name-calling (really, he'd been called a lot worse than “turncoat” and “double-crosser”), laughed at the threats, and called on the most brilliant minds he knew to help him formulate a new draft. He was so committed to making this work, he'd even contacted Reed Richards and, _man_ , he despised that guy! Natasha had also managed to put in her two cents via heavily encrypted phone calls – because of course she knew what was happening, she always knew everything – and Tony had considered cracking some joke about wholly committing to one team, but he sincerely appreciated her unique and hypercritical viewpoints, so he'd managed to keep his mouth shut for once. Besides, pot meet kettle, right?

It was a long, uphill struggle, but satisfactory amendments had finally been agreed upon and signed into law. SHIELD's new director – Phil Coulson, as it were – had called in Tony's people, both the Avengers and those who'd helped revise the Accords, to discuss the implications of the new laws and not-so-subtly congratulate them on their hard work. Following the boring, long-winded explanation of the new terms and the dismissal of the non-Avengers (except Rhodey and Pepper, because they refused to leave Tony's side, God love them), Coulson had leveled meaningful eyes on each person in the conference room and told them he was bringing their exiled friends home. Today. If it had been any other person, Tony might have wondered how they'd found the fugitives, but this was Phil Coulson, the Man With the Plan, the Bloodhound, the only man who'd successfully remained as Clint and Natasha's handler. Of course he'd found them. Hell, he'd probably known where they were all along. Not that he would give anything more than that trademark passive smile in response to such a suggestion, as Tony (to his eternal censure) found out firsthand.

Phil had admitted to giving the coordinates of the new compound to the ex-outlaws, following up with a thinly-veiled comment about hoping there were enough rooms for everyone (surely in retaliation for being pestered), and Tony was still proud of himself for managing to sound flippant as he smoothly answered that there were. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself most times, but he'd designed the new property with the assumption that his team would one day be whole again, even assigning private spaces to Pepper, Rhodey, and Peter Parker (who came to visit often enough that he deserved his own room). To most everyone else, it seemed like the typical Stark over-extravagance, a slew of empty rooms that would probably remain unused, except, perhaps, if collaborating heroes needed a temporary place to board until whatever crisis was over.

Pepper and Rhodey knew better, probably Vision, too, and now Coulson.

Thus, they all entered the sprawling space via the hangar, unsure of any timeframe in which to expect their long-removed companions, tension radiating at the prospect of the uncertainties ahead.

As it happened, they didn't have to wait long. Or, rather, not at all.

Standing in a loose group across the broad expanse of concrete, clearly having just arrived, stood Team Cap. Both sides froze, muscles strained with doubt and the effort to make no wrong moves, and eyes swept opposing lines, gauging. Some members on both sides were hidden simply from the way they'd naturally been grouped up to this moment, and one of them just had to be the single person in all the world that Tony was dying to see.

After a long minute – but, damn, did it feel like a decade – Clint blurted, “Oh, fuck this!” and crossed the room in a few swift strides, locking his hands in the lapels of Coulson's suit jacket, dragging him in for a passionate kiss. The room at large stared, most in absolute shock, until they parted.

“Hi,” Clint murmured against Phil's lips, eyes half-lidded, smile somehow arrogant and genuinely happy all at once.

“Hi,” the SHIELD director muttered back, arms wrapped loosely around Barton's waist.

Hawkeye tipped his head back and to the side to level his gaze on Tony, saying, “I assume I've got a room here, yeah? I'm going to be making use of it now.”

While the billionaire gaped, mind stuck on the fact that Clint Barton had just _kissed_ Phil Coulson, the latter of the pair interjected, “Allow me to show you the way,” and, yeah, there was definitely going to have to be a conversation about why the hell Phil knew the layout of the new compound despite having never stepped foot into it until today. Oh, and also about _Clint Barton kissing Phil Coulson!!!_

As they left, the archer called over his shoulder, “Sorry, guys, I promise I'll catch up with the rest of you, but I've got some pressing business in need of my immediate attention. Specifically, this man. Naked. In my bed.” His laughter as Phil shot him a fond, reproachful look rang in the air well after they'd disappeared into the main building.

There was another moment of awkward silence, this one a little more focused on the relationship bombshell that had just been dropped on them, and then people were moving forward, talking, clasping hands, hugging, and the spell was broken.

Tony's legs were locked in place, fear a gripping presence in his chest, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and his stomach doing vicious rolls. He accepted the words and affections of his returned teammates, but he honestly had no idea who had come to him or what was said, or how he'd responded in turn. His eyes were searching for that one face, that one form, the only one that truly mattered right now, the one that had been haunting him for the last two years.

It was Natasha who brought him out of his trance. He didn't know what she did, if anything, but he suddenly snapped back to himself and locked onto her piercing green eyes. She gave him the tiniest quirk of her lips, a sunny grin by her standards, all her words conveyed in that minute movement; he hoped his own expression said everything he felt. She studied him a moment longer (oh, hey, she was blonde now, how weird was that), then her face changed in that subtle way that meant something else had garnered her attention. She gave him another warm look and stepped gracefully to the side, exposing the decidedly rugged countenance of his paramour.

Steve was staring at him with those sharp blue eyes, and there was about ten good feet of space between them, but Tony could see they were a little too wide in what he easily recognized as underlying panic. Steve's uniform was looking a little worse for wear, but it did nothing to detract from his well-toned muscles, especially standing at stiff, military attention as he was now. Tony felt his own breathing matching the rapid pace of his love's heaving chest, and his eyes latched onto the tic in that chiseled jaw – funny that he could still see it through that truly impressive beard.

He was just beginning to think he might run (whether toward or away from Steve, he didn't know), desperately trying to keep his emotions and thoughts locked down until he could process them in private, when a small hand on his bicep made him jump. He whipped his head down to find Pepper at his arm, holding it protectively, looking up at him with eyes that promised she would do whatever he needed, even if that meant going toe-to-toe with Captain America, and he loved her so much in that moment. A larger hand landed on his opposite shoulder and Rhodey was there, expression carefully neutral as he considered Steve across the space; it was doubly impressive to Tony, being that the pilot was a huge Cap fan and all, and hadn't had the time to properly ~~fanboy over~~ meet him before the team had split.

Tony took a breath and gave a tiny smile, left hand coming up to cover Pepper's, right crossing to grasp at Rhodey's, feeling safe and warm just then; he knew, no matter how things went – and he was _not_ thinking about that right now, he couldn't think about it – he would be okay. Regardless of the rest of humanity, he had these two people he could count on, always and forever.

“I'll be okay,” he said softly, voice pitched for only their ears. He projected his most sincere look in each of their directions as they examined his face for any trace of a lie, then those hands fell away and they trailed off to make niceties with the others gathered nearby. Tony turned his gaze to Steve once more, this time level and determined.

Bucky was there next to Cap and the latter's blue eyes slid worriedly toward him, a silent askance if Barnes would be fine on his own (Tony knew that look, remembered it from hundreds of their own silent exchanges), but the metal-armed man just rolled his eyes and clapped his friend on the shoulder, trailing off to sidle up next to Natasha. It was good that he left, because Tony didn't know if he could keep it together in front of the ex-assassin; he'd long since accepted that the Winter Soldier hadn't been in control of his faculties when he'd killed Tony's parents, but that didn't mean the anger wasn't still there, that the billionaire could just move on and be okay with him. He didn't need the added burden of censoring the already difficult things that needed to be said.

He hadn't realized the room had gone hushed, too focused on the man across from him, neither of them having moved an inch since their staring contest had begun, but it hit him all at once when Natasha's voice quietly suggested, “Why don't we all give them some time alone?”

The silence rushed in on him, the lack of voices and incidental sounds that typically accompanied so many bodies, and Tony glanced over to find all eyes were pinned to him and Steve. Panic sparked in his chest, adrenaline flooding his veins, and he fought down the urge to escape their attention; many would probably be surprised to learn that it was a very common notion for him, the discomfort of being a crowd's primary focus, despite (or maybe because of) living in the spotlight his entire life. Luckily, the gathering was more than willing to follow Natasha's lead as she headed into the main building – and of course she knew where she was going, that wasn't the least bit surprising, she'd probably obtained copies of the floorplans the day he'd submitted them and memorized them in moments. As they left, he caught the meaningful looks Pepper and Rhodey shot him ( _Call if you need us._ ) and then everyone was gone.

Alone, finally, with the man he'd been dying to see for so long he could hardly remember a time before, Tony felt all the things he'd been wanting to say bubble up in his throat and flood across his tongue, ready to issue forth.

Then, Steve said, “Is there someplace we can talk privately?” He must've seen the challenge in the billionaire's eyes because he added, “I don't want to be interrupted,” and gestured to the hangar.

It was true, Cap's little band of merry men (and Natasha – did that make her Maid Marion? He wasn't brave enough to ask.) had left their belongings behind in favor of beating a hasty retreat, which meant they would need to come back sooner or later, and there was no telling how long this would take. So, Tony pressed his lips into a thin line and motioned for Cap to follow.

~~~~

The liquid in the glass looked woefully under-measured, so he shrugged and added some more. Two fingers, then.

Tony lifted the scotch with the intent to take a generous sip, only to find himself overcome with a sudden, inexplicable ~~urge to avoid talking~~ thirst, and he drained the glass. He didn't spare a single thought before refilling it with another double, earning a sigh from behind him.

“I wish you wouldn't drink,” Steve cajoled, and it brought up memories of another time, long ago it seemed, when he'd uttered those exact words and looked at Tony with sad eyes. The tech genius hadn't been able to deny him then, had promised to work at cutting back (successfully, with his paramour's encouragement), but now he turned to face the blonde and defiantly took a long swallow from his tumbler, bitterly pleased with the glare he received.

Stark leaned with feigned comfort against the tall bar tucked against the wall, near his desk so it was easily accessible – he'd brought them to his own quarters, to his office because that's where business was done, in an office, and this was business, right? – and crossed his free arm over his chest, using it to prop the one holding his drink. He purposely used said beverage to gesture toward Steve.

“You said you wanted to talk. So, talk.”

The bearded man – and, oh, how hard it was not to comment on _that_ , although maybe that was just his brain trying to avoid less pleasant thoughts – looked as though he was about to argue that statement, but instead took a deep breath, mouth tightly shut as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Tony was certain his eyes were filled with dark amusement over the rim of his glass, pinned on the baby blues opposite him, but he didn't much care.

“Two years,” Steve muttered softly, and that's all it took.

Those couple of words were all it took to open the floodgates, to shatter the flimsy hold he'd had on all the things he'd kept bottled up.

Two years! Yes, it had been two years! Two years full of pain, and fear, and misery, and loneliness, and fear, and doubts, and fear, and anger, and _so much_ _fear_ , and now every single second of them coalesced into a burning hot rage that would rival even the Hulk.

He didn't know where his scotch ended up, but he felt the reverberation of the punch travel through his now-empty fist, up his arm, past his shoulder, down his spine, and all the way into his hips; a good, solid blow. He was fiercely proud that he'd managed to catch Captain America off guard, enough so that Steve had fallen sideways and dropped onto one knee, and that stunned look was truly something to behold. Tony saw the fury surge forth in that blue gaze, saw it firm Steve's jaw, and he knew the man would come up swinging. He brought his hands up (the way Steve had taught him in their sparring sessions, not that it had ever saved him then, not that it would save him now), more than willing to take the blows if he could land his own and exhaust the emotional turmoil roiling within.

As Steve surged to his feet, Tony snapped out another vicious punch, but his counterpart had always been incredibly, almost inhumanly, fast. One strong hand closed around his wrist, the other encircling its partner, and he was slammed backward into the bar, felt the sharp edge of the countertop bite into his shoulder blades, heard glass ring dangerously. He was gearing up to struggle, to slip eel-like out of the tight grasp of his opponent (it was his only chance of staying in the fight), but Steve must've known that, knew it from all the times they'd trained together. That broad, muscular form pressed him soundly against the bar, held his wrists firmly at his sides, and pressed a thigh between Tony's to prevent him from dropping downward. The billionaire had been expecting that, honestly, knew better than to think he could outmaneuver the brilliant strategic mind of Steve Rogers, but what took him by surprise was the vicious method with which the blonde attacked him.

Lips and tongue and teeth assaulted Tony's mouth, and he found himself responding in kind, all his frustration poured into the kiss-turned-battle. [**](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b579329a2ecf928dab0a1f79e8ca2f26/tumblr_ogp1klDZOL1qmpba6o4_1280.jpg) The resentment and animosity were still there, twisted into a ferocity that left him straining to get his hands on Steve for an entirely different reason than his initial intentions, and he snarled into the kiss, struggles useless in the face of super soldier strength. So, he focused his attention on what he could do, delving into his paramour's mouth (noting the brush of the new facial hair), arching into the body pressed to his. He felt the hardness pressing into his hip and ground his answering erection against Steve's thigh, getting the smallest of sounds for his effort. That triggered something in his hazy mind and he was determined to have more. Tony fought his way to alter the angle of their kiss so he could suck Cap's lower lip into his mouth, smoothing it over with his tongue –

Then bit down.

He tasted the sharp tang of blood, a taste he was intimately (no pun intended... or maybe it was...) familiar with, and Steve jerked back with a gasp. Tony met his eyes, doing nothing to douse the fire he felt burning in his own, and deliberately cleaned the blood that had spilled onto his lips with a slow swipe of his tongue. He darkly enjoyed the way those baby blues followed the movement, the unrepressed anger he saw in them. He tugged gently against the big hands still closed around his wrists, a delighted shiver running through him when they flexed bruisingly tight for a moment, and then he was free.

They crashed together, hands grasping hungrily, mouths coming together and breaking apart to seek other flesh, panting and moaning into the air, into each other. Stark gasped as Steve suddenly lifted him from the ground, quickly tucked his legs around that perfectly tapered waist, and never ceased in his ministrations. He felt them moving, knew they were headed somewhere, but he didn't have it in him to give a good goddamn until he was abruptly dropped, blinking owlishly as he bounced on his mattress. He wasn't sure how Steve had known where the bedroom was – in all likelihood, he hadn't, he'd just made an educated guess – but it didn't really matter because Steve was on him in the span of a single breath, hands tugging at his clothes, and Tony tugged back, each of them exposing skin in fits and starts. Steve dragged Tony's pants and boxers off in one rough pull, Tony was dragging Steve's uniform shirt up over his head, articles were thrown in whatever direction, something tore, and neither of them cared. They kissed and bit and caressed whatever flesh came into view, sitting up, laying back, parting and pressing back together, and then they were finally naked.

Tony moaned, whimpered, and growled as Steve covered him with that Serum-perfected body, tucked perfectly into the hollow between the billionaire's legs, those wonderful hands rasping across his skin, playing with his nipples, pumping his cock. He bucked and arched into the touches, his own fingers scraping blunt nails down that broad back, leaving red lines and shudders and groans in their wake. He kissed Steve at every chance, devouring him desperately, licking away the blood that kept welling up from the wound he'd left, cruelly satisfied with every taste of copper. He felt his paramour lift his thigh, grip certain to leave imprints, and then there was a pressure against his ass.

Steve brought his head up from where it had been worrying a dark hickey into Tony's collarbone, staring down at him with his piercing gaze, and the tech genius gazed back, anticipation fluttering through every nerve ending. All he said was, “Steve,” and the blonde's eyes sparked with something (or a hundred somethings) unidentifiable and he thrust inside.

The pain took Tony's breath away for a long moment, but then Steve was pulling out and the air rushed back into his lungs just before the next rough stroke. Stark groaned against the burn of being taken dry, but that hot need was still burning as brightly as ever, and he arched to meet each snap of Steve's hips. The pace was fast and hard, relentless and angry and perfect, so very perfect. Tony gasped and moaned, clinging to the man above him, mouth forming a litany of nonsense interspersed with swears.

“Tony.”

He opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – as Steve slowed to a halt and found sky blue, pupils blown, drinking in his image with a thirst he couldn't understand. He knew he'd been talking, wondered what he'd said that could bring such a sorrowful, desperate look through all the rage that had been there before.

And then it hit him.

The only meaningful thing he'd said since the madness started.

“Steve,” he breathed, and it was like he'd flipped a switch.

The blonde dove in for a kiss, resuming his exuberant rhythm, then trailed away from Tony's lips to lick and nip at the sensitive flesh of his throat. The billionaire obliged his unspoken need, adding Steve's name to his verbalizations, each utterance earning him a sharp bite or deep kiss or particularly enthusiastic thrust. One of the latter made contact with his prostate, stars exploding across his vision, and he shouted his pleasure and knew he was doomed. Sure enough, Steve aimed for that spot again, and it became a cycle: Tony said Steve's name, Steve angled for the sensitive bundle of nerves as a reward, making Tony shout his name, encouraging Steve to do it again, round and round.

The billionaire felt his orgasm building rapidly, tried to find some way to stave it off, but his paramour was driving ruthlessly against his prostate and he was practically sobbing the man's name. He felt the wave surging up, saw it towering over his head, ready to crash down, and then Steve said, voice gravelly with lust but no less commanding for it, “Tony. Look at me.”

Tony dragged his eyes to Steve's face, saw the focus of his dreams for the last two years, saw the want and rage and confusion there, and the _love_. God, there was so much _love_ in those beautiful eyes, and release ripped through him, made him shudder and twist, screaming Steve's name, and he never once broke contact with those eyes. Through the overwhelming sensations – he'd never cum that hard in his entire life – he watched Steve's expression contort with the pleasure-pain of his own finish, and if that wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen, well, it must have been, because it sent violent aftershocks rolling through him.

They laid there for a while, Steve still buried deep inside Tony, lying half on top of him, both of them panting and shivering with aftershocks, pressing tired kisses into the nearest patches of skin. Then the kisses became more heated, turned into nibbles, hands came up to roam over flesh, cocks filled, and passion overtook them again.

And several times after.

Steve took Tony on his hands and knees on the bed, then again bent over the edge of it. Tony dug his nails into Steve's back as he was held up against the wall and ravished. They headed into the bathroom for a shower and, while they waited for the water to heat up, Steve had Tony over the sink, bruising fingers grasping his chin, field voice instructing him to watch in the mirror. In the shower, the hot deluge was offset by the cold wall when Steve pushed him against it and shoved into him. Subsequently clean, muscles tired and loose from the heated water, they returned to bed and made a moot point of it, and Steve gave up his previously frenzied pace in favor of slow, languid rolls of his hips, Tony coming apart beneath him under the lazy, soulful attentions.

Finally sated, exhausted and sore (at least on Tony's part), Stark found himself curled against Steve's side, head cradled in the juncture of one broad shoulder, floating in the bliss clouding his mind. He made a soft sound of contentment as calloused fingers idly traced randoms patterns over his ribs and down his back, an easy smile blooming across his lips, growing impossibly wider as a sweet kiss was pressed to his head.

“I missed you so much,” he heard, words rumbling through Steve's chest and buzzing in his ear, fingers combing through his hair.

Everything he'd been keeping buried inside came welling up, anger and fear scrubbed away over the last few hours, leaving only pain and sorrow behind. Tony pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down into Steve's face, chest aching for the love in those sparkling eyes and the warm smile that felt like home. He watched his paramour's brow slowly furrow with concern, imagined how his own expression must look, and spoke quickly before he lost his nerve.

“I'm so sorry,” he rushed out, voice threatening to break on the words. He swallowed and soldiered on. “I'm so sorry for _everything_ , I know I fucked up, I see that now, I've known it for a while, actually, and I'm so goddamn sorry. I wish I could take it all back, I wish I hadn't said all that stuff, I shouldn't have attacked you at the air-”

He was cut off with a firm hand in his hair, dragging him down into a hard kiss that left him breathless. When Steve relinquished his grip, trailing a gentle hand down to cup his cheek, Tony blinked down at him dazedly.

“I'm sorry, too,” the blonde told him, smiling again, albeit with a hint of grief lurking just below the surface. “I didn't handle things very well – scratch that, I screwed up entirely. You're a wonderful man, Tony, and I should've known there was more to it when you agreed to sign the Accords. I should've taken the time to talk to you in private, to hear you out, to actually discuss it, but I was just so _angry_ with everything that had been happening, and I-” Steve shook his head and sighed. “There's a lot of moments when I could've done the right thing and I didn't. Oh, God, when I hurt you, I thought-!”

Tony's heart seized in his chest at the despair that washed over Steve. He had to make it stop, had to wipe that horrible expression off his face, had to quell the tears that were shining in blue eyes, so he grabbed Steve and held him, kissed him fiercely.

“I'm okay,” he assured him between frantic kisses. “I'm okay, I'm here, everything's fine.”

He struggled a little as his love pushed him back enough to gaze up into his face and say, “It's not _fine_ , Tony, I almost killed you! I almost- And you-”

“You didn't,” Tony insisted, pouring every ounce of accusation into the words. “You could have and you didn't, Steve. I'm here, I'm okay, _we're_ okay.”

“Are we?”

Stark's heart broke at the uncertainty in those two syllables and leaned in to kiss Steve, projecting all the love and need and happiness he felt into it, murmured against his lips, “ _Yes._ ”

Steve held him tight, surged up into the kisses, gently rolled him onto his back, swapping their positions so that he was the one propped on an elbow when they parted, looking down at Tony with pure adoration. The tech genius grinned at him, reached up for another quick peck, then felt doubt dim the smile.

“What about Bucky?” he asked softly, hating to ruin the upward tic they'd found. The way Steve's face became worried and pinched made him think he wasn't going to like the answer.

“He's part of my team, Tony, he's my friend. I can't turn my back on him.”

“No, I know that, I've- Look, I know he wasn't in his right mind when he killed my parents, okay? I'm... working on that.” If anything, that seemed to confuse Steve even further.

“Then, what-?”

“What about you two? Were you ever... _you know_... before?” He sighed in exasperation when his paramour just blinked at him cluelessly. “Jesus! Were you- Together! Were you guys _together_ before the whole frozen-for-seventy-years thing? Because, you know, it's been two years and you've been with him the whole time, and I've been here, and, well, I wouldn't blame you, things just happen, old romances rekindle. I just don't want to get in the way and I can't do _this_ if you're with him, I won't be a sidepiece, I- _Why the hell are you laughing?!_ ”

He glared daggers at Steve as the man bowed his head, hysterical giggles wracking through him, and he flopped over onto his back when Tony hit his shoulder in half-hearted anger. The billionaire sat up and pinned him with the most deadly look he could muster, which only succeeded in earning him an upgrade to full-on guffawing, leaving him gawking in disbelief. He was just taking a breath to start berating him when Steve snagged him and pulled him down for a kiss, chuckling a little against his lips, then maneuvered him into an embrace similar to how they'd been curled up before.

“No,” the blonde finally said, tremors of amusement still sporadically making themselves known, and Tony was placated enough to stop trying to lift his head from the pillow Steve's chest. “No, Tony, Bucky and I were never together. Even if I'd ever held any interest in him – and I never did! – I was like his little brother, he never would've seen me like that. Besides, I told him about you the first chance I got, once he was stable. I told him all about you: how wonderful and brilliant you are, how talented, how fierce and proud, how stubborn, how reckless.” There was fond teasing in his tone toward the end of the list. “I told him about the incredible things you create, the way you run yourself haggard to complete your work, the way you talk too much, the way you look when you're excited, and when you're fighting, and when you first wake up in the morning-”

“Oh, God, _stop!”_ Tony groaned helplessly, covering his burning face with his hand.

“That's what Bucky said, too,” Steve laughed, getting another whine in response. His voice was suddenly soft and sincere as he said, “It's always been you, Tony. It's always and only been you.”

The billionaire lifted his head from its resting place to meet the blonde's eyes, heart hammering in his chest, and he melted at the way his paramour was gazing at him. He leaned in to kiss him for the millionth time, making a mental note to do so at every possible chance for the foreseeable future, fully intending to make up for the two-years-worth of missed opportunities. They fell asleep like that, curled in each other's arms, kisses tapering off into nuzzles and then into dreams.

~~~~

Tony woke in a mild panic, convinced that yesterday had been an illusion – he'd had many similar, if less detailed, dreams of his reunion with Steve, and woken up to a cold bed and a heavy heart – but was lulled instantly by the warm body he was snuggled up to, inhaling the scent of soap and leather and _Steve_ where his nose was pressed to the skin of his collarbone. He hummed sleepily when the strong arm that was wrapped around him tightened possessively, getting a gravelly chuckle and a kiss on the head in return.

“Morning,” Steve rumbled, and the happiness in his voice was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever heard.

“Mmm,” he answered, burying his face further against the flesh before him, smiling at the way his love laughed at that.

“Come on, Tony, we should get up.”

“Mrrrrm!” he protested, snuggling in tighter.

“Tony,” Steve reprimanded, drawing his name out slightly, but the tech genius could hear the grin in his voice and knew it was all a front, contenting himself with chasing after the doze that was tickling at the back of his mind. “Tony, it's time to get up. We should probably let everyone know we worked things out.”

Tony smirked at that, recalling exactly how they'd _worked things out_ the day before, and mumbled, “We're still working things out, I intend to work things out all day today, we shouldn't give them false hope just yet- Hmm.” He smiled into the kiss that Steve maneuvered him into.

Then, the bastard was pulling away, getting up, and he whined his disapproval, wrapping himself around the blonde like an octopus. There was something to be said for super soldier strength, though, because his added weight barely slowed Steve down, and he found himself clinging tighter for the sole purpose of not falling and hurting himself. He pouted as the man looked down at him, all too pleased with himself for making it to his feet despite Tony's best attempt, offering no assistance to keep the tech genius from busting his ass. With a resigned huff, Tony slowly disengaged and stood there, glaring up at him petulantly. Steve just grinned and gave him another kiss, then started searching for his scattered garments.

“There's clean clothes in the closet, underwear in the bureau,” Tony offered idly, loathing the idea of his paramour pulling those dirty rags back on. He took a moment to enjoy the view as Steve headed across the room, eyes drinking in every inch of skin.

“You have my clothes in your room?” the blonde inquired as he picked through the wardrobe.

“Some,” the billionaire admitted, only half-listening to the conversation, mostly distracted by beautiful musculature and the deep-seated ache stirred up by his recent movements, reminding him exactly what that walking epitome of human perfection had done to him; he was going to have trouble sitting comfortably today and that suited him just fine. “The rest is in your room down the hall. I wasn't sure you'd want this anymore, so I made you your own room, just in case.”

He raised an eyebrow in bewilderment as Steve turned to stare at him, something warm and a little sad tinging his expression. He wondered if his mouth had gotten him into trouble again – it often did, especially when he wasn't paying attention to what he was saying, and he really hadn't been a moment ago.

“You thought I wouldn't want to be with you?” Steve asked him quietly, and Tony felt an embarrassed blush creep across his cheeks.

“I wasn't sure, you know, with everything that happened.”

“But you kept my clothes in here anyway?”

Stark didn't trust his voice to remain steady, wasn't sure what to say anyway, so he settled for nodding. He watched his paramour close the space between them slowly, as if afraid he was going to spook Tony, and accepted the tender kiss he received.

“I love you,” Steve told him. “I want this.”

Tony blushed a little harder and said, “I love you, too.” He stared up into sky blue eyes for a long moment, then couldn't take the intensity anymore, however pleasant, and gave Steve a joking push. “Get dressed. Go on! You're the one that insisted we have to be social.”

His love laughed and drew him into a long, lingering kiss, then moved away to do as he was told. “Am I going to have to go to my other room for less formal clothes? All I saw in the closet were designer labels.”

“What other room? There is no other room. I'm going to brick it up and let all those horrid flannel shirts and khakis crumble to dust, unmourned. This is your room now, this is our room.” He started pulling on his own clothes (a ratty old AC/DC T-shirt and jeans, thinking he'd spend the day either lazing around or in the workshop), body protesting in decidedly pleasant ways, and continued when he heard Steve chuckle at him. “No, really, I am. Those are- Steve, those are just horrid, honestly. And with the – hey, no, don't you dare put that disgusting excuse for a uniform back on, I'm making you a new one, a better one –” Steve already had the gloves back on, but at least he had the decency to drop the jacket. “With the beard, you'll look like some hipster- By the way, nice touch, a little long, I think, but very rugged-lumberjack-handsome.”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly and closed the space that separated them, folding one hand around the back of Tony's neck, drawing him in close.

“No, really,” the latter insisted, but the amusement was slowly giving way to contented warmth, “it's very nice. I didn't know you could grow a beard.”

“God, I've missed you,” Steve said, and captured Tony's lips for a loving kiss. **

When they parted, the billionaire couldn't help himself. “I mean, that's just downright impressive!”

“Tony,” his paramour groaned in affectionate exasperation.

“Truly! How did you even do that?”

“Tony, you've seen me shave. Every day. For years.”

“Mmhm, I don't buy it.”

“That's it, I'm shaving it off.”

“Don't you dare!”

“Say goodbye.”

They bickered and laughed their way out the door, under Steve's gentle prodding, and Tony (having to focus very carefully on not letting the pleasurably painful I-just-got-screwed-all-night-by-Captain-America show in his gait) led the way to the communal kitchen, which had traditionally been where everyone had gathered back at Avengers Tower. Sure enough, the whole crew was spread around the room, some at the giant dining table, some cooking or retrieving foodstuffs from various cabinets or the fridge. Pepper and Natasha were the first to see them enter, the former nudging Rhodey, and Tony smiled at his two oldest friends, reassuring them that everything was alright. Judging by the knowing, almost salacious expressions he received in return, they were already well aware of just how _alright_ things were.

Clint was the next to notice, voice garnering everyone else's attention as he called, “Hey, Tony! Hickey buddies!” He gestured between Tony and himself, apparently having made no effort to look anything other than quite thoroughly debauched. The billionaire couldn't help flushing a little, regretting his decision to include turtlenecks in Steve's side of the closet, making a mental note to remedy that later.

As his wounded pride – he had marked Steve up just as beautifully, even if those marks would fade fairly quickly with the Serum-heightened healing factor, and now his work was going unadmired – was deciding whether to burn the offending articles or just shred them, Peter (and when the hell had he arrived?) piped up from over his bowl of cereal.

“I take it Mom and Dad aren't getting a divorce?”

There was a brief instant of silence, then raucous laughter shook the room, Tony catching the look of disbelieving shock on Steve's face, certain he was wearing one to match.

Through the commotion, Steve asked, “Who's 'Mom' and who's 'Dad'?”

That sparked a very lively debate, everyone having a very clear opinion on the matter that they very vehemently shared, using the couple's beards (“ _I don't know, Steve's is pretty damn impressive, sorry, Tony._ ” Steve's very harassed, _“No, yeah, it's official. I'm shaving it off,_ ” followed by a loud chorus of noes.) as some sort of basis for their suitability for each role, and bets were taken, votes were cast, and everything dissolved into amiable chaos.

~~FIN~~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to Cookiestome for letting me use your art!!! I hope you enjoyed the story, dear! (Once again, go check out their Tumblr! http://cookiestome.tumblr.com/ )
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this!!! I hope you liked it! Please drop me a comment! (And please be kind.)


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